Catch Me If I Fall
by Sh3rlock Holm3s
Summary: The story takes place after "The Reichenbach Fall". John is grieving over the loss of his friend Sherlock Holmes. But his life takes a dramatic change when he finds his friend's phone which has been forgotten at the rooftop of St. Bart's Hospital. A little puzzle has been left behind and maybe everything isn't as hopeless as it might seem?
1. Falling Is Just Like Flying

**Catch Me If I Fall  
><strong>

The story takes place after "The Reichenbach Fall". John is grieving over the loss of his friend Sherlock Holmes. But his life takes a dramatic change when he finds his friend's phone which has been forgotten at the rooftop of St. Bart's Hospital. A little puzzle has been left behind and maybe everything isn't as hopeless as it might seem?

I will hopefully upload this story every weekend.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Falling Is Just Like Flying<strong>

„_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"  
>"Do what?"<br>"This phone call, it's … It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

The words echoed in John's head over and over again, whirling through his mind.  
>"Leave a note when?" He tried to remain a calm presence but his quavering voice betrayed him tremendously.<br>A few long seconds of silence followed with John still trying to find out where all of this was going. He wanted to make it all stop. He wanted to prevent his friend from falling. But he was at a loss of words.

"Goodbye John."

"No. Don't-". It was less than a whisper but it didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore except- _"SHERLOCK." _Now he screamed. His own squeaking voice drowning everything else out.

But it was too late.  
><em>Too late.<em>  
>It's funny how minutely his mind observed everything, every little detail that was burned into his mind like a brand mark, as if to make sure he would never stop remembering the worst seconds of his life.<br>The spreading of the detective's arms, like if he was just about to soar far away instead of dropping on the ground, the fluttering of his coat in the wind, the way his arms and legs struggled for a halt while rushing through the cold air.  
>John felt horror-struck<em>.<em> He had no control over himself as he suddenly found his numb legs moving into his friend's direction. His mind was spinning, there was not a single clear thought, just something hammering inside of his head and chest. Was it his heart beat?

He didn't know what hit him as he all of a sudden found himself on the ground. His head ached like hell. He groaned in agony. A few seconds passed by until he finally got up again, still unsteady on his feet but not wasting one more look at that cyclist who had bumped into him and smashed him on the ground. Now, of all times!

"Let me through! Please! I'm a doctor." He cried out but when nobody seemed to let him through, he tried it another way "Please. He's my _friend_." He stumbled again and again. "John, pull yourself together!" he harassed himself harshly while trying to make his way through the little crowd that was already gathered around the detective.  
>Like in a rush, like in a trance, John kneeled down next to his friend, almost plopping on the cold ground. Reaching out to Sherlock's wrist, he blended out everything else around him. The screaming shocked people, trying to get him away, and the paramedics rushing in. Everything around him disappeared in an instance.<br>He felt his chest tighten and his mind going blank. _There was no pulse._ _No pulse._  
>"God, no."<br>Now he let them. Let that woman behind him grab him harshly on his arm, pulling him away. Let them get Sherlock on the mattress of the ambulance. Let them get on his feet; let them get Sherlock out of his sight.  
>Though his eyes followed every move the paramedics made he could not understand.<br>Couldn't understand, couldn't take anything in, he couldn't _feel.  
><em>

Once in a lifetime Sherlock allowed his mind not to think straight. If he let just one single rational thought cross his mind he would end up … yes, end up doing what? And that was exactlythe point. He did not know. He did not know what his next step should be. He had laid everything on the line and yet lost.  
>Having reached, an impasse, the point of no return, he knew no other way out buttaking the fall.<br>He swallowed hard, concentrating only on the little spot on the pavement. Sherlock reminded himself that this was his solely purpose he followed through with all of this. And it was worth it. He'd do anything in his power to save the, from far away seemingly small man, who now looked up to him, disbelief written all over his face.

_"I'm a fake."  
>"It's a trick. Just a magic trick."<em>  
><em>"This phone call, it's … It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."<br>_

The hints were so easy to deduce, so easy to understand and yet he knew that nothing was going to become easy. Not as he watched his friend, his one and only friend, clinging desperately to every word he was saying.  
>"You're a soldier, John. You're strong. Remember, you went through worse?" Sherlock pleaded silently in his head.<br>_"Goodbye John."_  
>He gave it two more seconds until he threw his phone away. With a little bounce it landed next to his feet, only a few meters away.<p>

He did not take a look back, did not waste a single glance at the dead corpse of Moriarty nor at the threateningly faraway pavement beneath him.  
>His arms were spreading out naturally, his eyes focusing solely on the blue, clear sky above.<p>

_Falling is just like flying except there is a more permanent destination._

His hands and his chest were the first that reached the bottom of the truck. With a dump sound his whole body crashed into the soft and caving mass of hay.  
>Without bothering whether he was uninjured or not (not that it would have been severely anyway, the hay was after all comfortable enough) he jumped off the track, plopping on the ground in an instance. A few guys from the homeless network were running out of their hidings, appearing as if out of nowhere, crowding and shielding him. He recognized a few familiar faces. There were Jack and Scarlet. And a bit further away, hiding and peaking out behind a corner, Jimmy, the cyclist.<br>While the detective skimmed over all of the faces, taking in as much data and information as possible he pulled out the rubber ball of his pocket pressing it under his arms. It would help to slow down his pulse immediately. One of the homeless men splashed fake blood all over him.  
>All of this had happened in no more than a few seconds. It all went so fast, almost too fast to perceive anything, but still fast enough for Sherlock to close his eyes and put on a motionless and vacant expression.<br>And then he perceived a strangled, shaking voice.  
><em>"I'm a doctor. Let me through."<em>  
>He wished he had something to cover his ears with.<br>_ "He's my friend. Let me through. Please."  
><em>There was a gentle touch on his wrist, by increasing the pressure, Sherlock noticed that John tried to take his pulse. It felt warm and pleasant on his too cold skin but then his friend's fingers began to shack and slipped away.  
><em>"God, no." <em>  
>Guilt overwhelmed Sherlock like a wave. He tried not to swallow or show any other indications of his consciousness and awareness.<br>His nerves were strained to the breaking point. It was a thousand times worse than he had dared to believe.  
>He wanted to reach out to John. Touch him. Tell him it'll be okay. Tell him it's all just for his own good.<br>But what choice did he have? One visible hint and it would all be over. Three lives were on the line. There was no way he could risk it.  
>Hands were suddenly all over him, putting him gently on the mattress. Paramedics were surrounding him. The heat and comfort of John's body disappeared. His voice faded away.<br>_"Find the note, John. Find my note. You are capable of it. I place all my trust in you."_ Sherlock's last thoughts flashed through his mind before he was being rushed around the next corner, leaving John Watson and his whole existence behind.


	2. Missing you

**Chapter 2: Missing You **

Hey guys, so this chapter is a quite short one but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." John's voice cracked once again. He swallowed and tried to suppress a sob.  
>But somehow it felt good to relieve his entire burden and pour out his heart, although he knew there was no one who was listening to his unrehearsed, spontaneously, fucked up speech. It didn't matter. It may have just been a cold stone he was talking to but at this very moment it meant the world to him. He patted it once, twice and miraculously he didn't even feel ridiculous. He only wished it would have been Sherlock instead of a black, shiny headstone.<br>There were so many questions left unanswered, hanging in the thick air but he didn't dare to speak them out loud. Too afraid there was no answer. Too afraid reality might finally hit him and leave him lost, cold and alone in this world again.  
>He focused his eyes one last time on the black, huge grave stone with the letters of his friend's name printed on it, nodded shortly while braving himself like a soldier was supposed to and walked away, leaving the graveyard and Sherlock Holmes behind him.<p>

It almost physically hurt as he entered the flat of 221B Baker Street.  
>He felt the absence immediately. The empty rooms which made him feel so alone. No, not alone but <em>lonely.<em>

Most of all it was the little things he missed.  
>He would have never guessed that the simple sight of lacking human bodies in the fridge could make him feel depressed, finding disappointingly nothing but healthy, tasty food.<br>He missed the bullets flying through the air and hitting the poor wall, the annoying shouts of "I'm bored.", "Shut up! I need to think!" or simply "John?" and the way Sherlock would sneak up from time to time behind him and startle him, just to crack up laughing like a 5-year-old at John's reaction.  
>He missed Sherlock's amazing beautiful eyes, lighting up when solving an especially difficult case and hunting a murderer down, with John following his every step, like a loyal puppy. He missed his friend's ability to show off in the most outrageous moments. John laughed, thinking back how Sherlock almost desperately sought for attention and praise and lived for the short little moments John complimented his mind-blowing intelligence. The detective had never made words about it but secretly he had enjoyed every second of it, John knew it.<p>

The doctor sighed, what was the use of wallowing in memories? But still, it was so hard to let go …

_The rush of adrenalin. The thumping heartbeats in their chests. The smell of fear and sweat, hanging in the air. The feeling of a loaded gun in his pocket and a loyal companion on his side. The black coat. The blue scarf. Those cheekbones. The silly hat. _John grinned at this memory. _The little smile on the detective's lips you only got a sneak peek at so rarely.  
>Exchanging glances. His dazzling eyes .Ice blue with green sparkles … <em>

At first John was confused about the wet liquid on his face but then he realized he had indeed started to cry. A gut-wrenching sob escaped his lips, making his shoulders shake and his eyes tearing up even more. With one hand clasped around his body protectively and with the other one brushing the tears away hastily, he rocked forth and back like a baby.

It was already early in the morning when he finally managed to pull himself together, climbing the stairs up to his bedroom and letting himself plop on the cold but cosy mattress.  
>He had spend most of the night hunched up on the sofa, staring absent-minded at the green arm chair from afar, as if solely his intense stare would transport his best friend back to the place where he belonged. He only had to imagine it hard enough, hadn't he?<p>

Now, lying there on his bed, his legs felt numb, his stomach was begging for food and his head ached. But he did not give a damn. He only buried his head into the pillows, crying himself to sleep, hoping that his dreams were finally the way to escape reality. 


	3. Out of sight Out of mind?

_~ 3 months later ~_

**Chapter 3: Out of sight. Out of mind?  
><strong>

John stood in front of the huge and large walls … the walls of the St. Bart's Hospital. He took a deep breath while examining every single detail. It's been three months now since he had last stood at this exact point here looking up to the rooftop. He swallowed hard, trying to repress his uneasiness. _"It's just a building. Just a building"_ he tried to persuade himself. However there was no denying of all the fears and agitations that overwhelmed him and brought back all the dark memories. He shuddered when he saw his best friend fall once again behind his eyes.  
>"John, keep calm." He instructed himself harshly and drew his gaze away from the rooftop, down to the doorway, his knees almost giving in.<br>Without wasting another second, he made his way wobbly towards the door. Not for the first time he wondered why the heck he was even here … why? What did he even think he was doing?

It was only when he felt the blowing cold wind breezing through his short hair and the pleasant fresh air which crawled in every little pore of his body his mind started to think clearly again.  
>He found himself standing upon the edge of the old building. He didn't know what to do next or why he had even chosen to come here in the first place. All what he knew was that it felt good to be standing at the exact same spot his friend had done not very long ago. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly while he let his gaze drift over the skyline of London. If it weren't for the aching memories he would have called it a <em>beautiful view. <em>But he was aware of the fact that this place here was the cause of his haunting nightmares, the cause of all the pain and senseless life he now lived every day.  
>Carefully he lowered his head and fixated his gaze on the ground. It felt like a stab in his heart as he perceived the spot where his friend had laid all covered in blood not even a few months ago.<br>Of course, now there was nothing to find which could hint at this incident. Down there, only every day activities seemed to take place: Busy people shopping, totally indulged in their little, meaningless occupation.  
><em>"Dull",<em> he heard a dismissive, oh so well-known voice in his head and John shrieked at its plain sound. But before the memories came up and bothersome thoughts could take shape he wiped them off hastily.  
>"Shut up, Sherlock", he murmured into the wind and couldn't restrain a little smile playing upon his lips. It was a little forced and felt wrong but at least it was there. He could have sworn he hadn't smiled in these three months once and it felt foreign, as if it didn't really belong to him.<p>

He remained there for what seemed like forever. Obviously the few people down there on the streets didn't notice him at all. Why would they? It's not like anyone would look up because they were expecting an idiot to be standing on a rooftop and inhaling the fresh, cold air, as if he was choking.  
>John chuckled to himself.<br>It was so _absurd. _He didn't know why but it felt somehow good to be here. As if everything was so much clearer and easier now. Yes, indeed, it hurt to be here. It hurt even damn much. But he definitely chose that over the numbness he usually felt.

He sighed deeply and let his thoughts drift away while he skimmed the rest of the huge rooftop with his eyes.  
>Suddenly, to his right, something caught his attention. It was black and little and seemed to sparkle due to the sunlight being reflected.<br>With just three long strides John reached the item which lay half-covered with dirt in the corner.  
>He picked it up and felt its light weight in his hand. It was a mobile: Black and little with a barely visible scratch at the left edge. He would have recognized it among thousands.<br>_"Sherlock's mobile! It's Sherlock's …"_ John felt his breath become shallow. His hands started shaking slightly.  
>"Of course! It's lying here now for three months and no one's ever found it … Not even the police which had carried out an actually thoroughly investigation." The mere thought of it caused him to swallow hardly.<br>Automatically he turned his head from the left to right to make sure no one was watching. "Of, course, there's no one here. Who else would be spending their time on a rooftop voluntarily?" he thought ironically. Though he knew there was nothing wrong in his doings he still felt a certain kind of guilt when he let the unobtrusive mobile slip into his pocket.  
>"Oh, come on, John! Shut up! It's not like you are stealing it. The police won't need it for their investigations anyway. After all they abandoned the investigations quite recently." He sighed.<br>In the end his curiosity and excitement took over.  
>Without wasting another second he headed to the stairs which lead back to the hospital corridor. His destination: 221b Baker Street.<p>

He needed time to think and calm down. His heart, meanwhile, had other plans for it was thumping in his chest like hell. He was just too nervous and excited to care.  
>"It's just his mobile, John. Just his mobile. Nothing spectacular." John reminded himself quietly but secretly he felt that it was so much more to him. This was the mobile he had had the last conversation with Sherlock.<p>

It didn't take long until he finally arrived at Baker Street. He still lived there though he had to admit to have been thinking about moving out several times already.  
>Without Sherlock there was nothing to hold onto. Now it was just a small and comfortable apartment like all the others in London. All the magic and mysteries which once hung in the air were gone.<p>

Entering the flat, the first thing he did was to put on the kettle and prepare a cup of hot tea. "Old habits die hard." He smirked. Everything else, no matter whether it was pills or some other kind of medications, never has had such a reassuring and good impact on him. Tea always seemed to help.  
>At around 8 o' clock he found himself sitting in his cosy arm chair, cup of tea on his lap while watching telly as usual. The only thing different now was the small mobile on his table in front of him. At one point John gave finally in to the temptation and reached for it. He started at it as if he couldn't believe it and wondered why it hadn't been found earlier. John had just been standing for a few minutes on that rooftop and the item has immediately caught his attention. So why not the one of the police? Maybe everything had been too much of a rush. After all Moriarty's corpse had been the centre of interest. As well as Sherlock Holmes' one of course. Both of them dead. Both of them a mystery. The boulevard press had been going mad for weeks. Theories over theories and one dramatic headline after another had followed. 'Was Sherlock a fake? Was he a liar? Kidnapper? Murder? Just to show off, just to fulfil his needs?'<br>Until the conspiracy theories and suspicions wouldn't ebb away John had never put a single foot out of the doorway. He had been so thankful when Mrs. Hudson had taken over his duties. She had been going grocery shopping for him and brought him everything he needed.  
>He couldn't stand it to go outside, perceive all of the side glances he got, the murmurs and half-hearted pitied smiles of strangers walking by. No thanks. He didn't need that. He believed in Sherlock one hundred percent and no one, <em>no one<em>, would ever be able to change that.  
>John sighed and shook off his thoughts. He had been definitely daydreaming and wallowing in memories too much lately. It was slowly but clearly becoming a habit.<p>

Gathering all his courage he clicked the small 'on' button and watched in anticipation the display lighting up.  
>But instead of the usually plain and simple black background screen a familiar yet unexpected display appeared.<p>

John sighed. _"Yeah, sure!"_ Password protected! Who would have guessed? As far as he knew Sherlock bloody Holmes had never bothered with passwords before.  
>"Well, maybe he changed his mind after Irene …" a little voice in his mind said and he almost laughed out loud was it not for that strange situation.<p>

He looked at the screen which read:

**I AM LOCKED**

And being confident of the answer, he typed, without wasting a second thought.

**I AM ****S H E R LOCKED**

After all he remembered every single detail.  
><em>'A Scandal in Belgravia'<em>. That's how he had called the case and though Sherlock always used to make fun of its 'ridiculous' name, John thought it was pretty accurate and imaginative.  
>Oh, how he missed the cases. How he missed writing and blogging.<br>Engrossed in his thoughts he hit the "OK" button and was totally taken aback when it didn't work out.

"**Error. Try Again. Two More Tries Left."  
><strong>  
>"What?" he muttered confused. Shit! Sherlock must have changed his password again. John rolled his eyes. This was so typical, darn his luck!<br>Contrary to the genius he had no brilliant and intelligent mind to profit by. Therefore John had no other choice than trying to guess. He still remembered how Sherlock had hated that. _Guessing  
><em>"I never guess." That's what he had told him at their first meeting and he had proved himself right.  
>John sighed as he weighted the odds. Only two more tries left. If he failed and guessed wrong, the phone would be totally locked.<br>Why the heck was he, above all, so eager to turn the mobile on? What was he expecting? He absolutely had no idea. There was no rational reason. What would he be doing anyway … going through Sherlock's texts, his messages, his contacts? Isn't that a bit like spying … like invading someone's privacy?

Determined he put the mobile back on the table and shoved it under some magazines so it disappeared out of his sight. "Out of sight. Out of mind." He told himself.  
>If only it were so simple!<p>

This night, as so many more, John got barely a wink of sleep. He was either trying to repress his annoying thoughts and ideas that spun through his mind or woke up again and again, covered in sweat, and being totally hag-ridden due to his haunting nightmares. He had stayed surprisingly calm throughout the day. It was the first time he had been at St. Bart's since his friend had been gone and now he paid the price.

_"SHERLOCK!" his voice echoed in his own ears. His heart was pounding as if it would burst into million pieces.  
>He wanted to move but couldn't. Frozen he stood there and watched his friend, his only friend, taking one step forward.<br>Falling, falling, falling.  
>Then silence.<br>_

Startled and drenched in sweat John awoke from another nightmare. Heavily breathing and shivering he laid there in the dark, trying to control his heart beats. "It's okay. Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. Once again." He tried to persuade himself though he knew that it wasn't quite right. It's been three months now and the nightmares came back ever so often. But this time it was different.  
>Usually it was always the same: Sherlock standing upon the rooftop, then the short but shocking conservation and finally the fall.<br>John knew it almost by heart now. It was always the same. Has always been … until this time …

This time it has not been the common "Goodbye John" that ended the conversation so abruptly the way it had happened in reality. No. This time the conversation broke down exactly in the middle.  
>Sherlock's last words had been: <em>"This phone call, it's … It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."<br>_John stood there in horror, helpless, like always in his dreams. The only thing slightly different now was that Sherlock's mobile fell first. And this time he had not thrown it in front of his feet like he used to do but down until the mobile crashed on the street below. Unrealistically, it wasn't broken or didn't shatter into thousands of shards. It just laid there with a little scratch on its left side.  
>A few seconds passed.<br>Then Sherlock followed.  
><em><br>_  
>John furrowed his brow in confusion. How strange the centre of his dream had been Sherlock's mobile, this had after all never happened before. The incident at Bart's rooftop must have really messed with his mind.<br>And besides, this didn't make any sense at all. Why would Sherlock have thrown the mobile down the building?  
>"Well, why not?" was the only logical response. If he had chosen to die anyway why would he have bothered to save his mobile? What did it matter? It wasn't even an expensive one!<br>John let out an annoyed sigh. This deduction stuff wasn't really his cup of tea.

It had always been great to watch Sherlock pursuing his favourite occupation. He had loved it, to be frank. He still loved it. The little deductions were the once who had captivated him the most. The way Sherlock could tell by only seeing someone's wedding ring how the marriage was going or tell by observing the way someone moved his hands or lifted his eyes what their life story looked like was amazing, to say the very least.

_"Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language." _Though Sherlock has only wanted to tease him a bit with this exaggeration there was a little bit of truth.  
>There were no words for this man and John knew it.<br>He could never reach this level of total capacity and control nor could anyone else.  
>Still, though he couldn't call himself a "Consulting Detective" he knew that there was something shady going on. He just had no idea what.<p>

Although it was still early in the morning and John's night could be claimed everything but a peaceful one he stood up and made tea. Better than drifting off and analysing every aspect of his dream like he'd gone mad, wasn't it?  
>At around 7o'clock he had to get ready for the praxis anyway, so why bother with going to bed again?<br>He was tired, indeed, but somehow he found himself even happy to go to work. It was a pleasant distraction, has always been.


	4. The First Encounter

**Chapter 4: The First Encounter**

As the day passed by and one patient after another entered the doctor's praxis, John's nightmare slowly vanished out of his mind.  
>He was busy, talking to impatient patients, reassuring concerned parents of ill children, arguing with one of his assistants about some silly files… In short: Working-non-stop.<br>It was the beginning of September and slowly but clearly the flu was going around, duplicating the amount of patients he treated every day.  
>So when he finally finished at around 8pm he was just about to leave as he met one of the new nurses on the hallway. Mary Morstan. He recalled her name. She had just been employed a week ago and though she was very quiet and seemed to be a bit shy, she obviously got along well.<br>As much as John had been told by some of his colleagues, she had worked before then in a much better and huger clinic, one with a great reputation.  
>Heaven knows why she had chosen to come here of all places.<p>

"Good evening, Dr. Watson" she nodded and smiled sheepishly.  
>"Oh please, just call me John. And you are Ms. Morstan, am I right?"<p>

They actually had not found the time for a proper talk yet. Both have been just too indulged and busy with their work. This was indeed the first time they were exchanging a few words.  
>"Exactly." She answered. "It's Mary, for you" she smiled again, now even brighter.<br>"She's pretty" John thought. Her blond short hair was kept in a ponytail and her huge eyes were sparkling blue. She was rather petite but there was something in the way she moved which made her look strong.  
>"Okay, Mary. I hope you're coming along well? If you've got any questions or remarks you can come to me or my colleagues anytime." He offered.<br>"Thank you. I'll remember that if I should ever need help. But right now everything is working pretty well. Except that your little praxis is nearly overrun by patients. "She made a little grimace, though smiled nevertheless.  
>"And what about you, Dr. Watson … uh, I mean, John? You're looking quite exhausted, too. Are you alright?"<br>"Could be better", he admitted, "Haven't slept good in the last few nights. Need some rest, I suppose. I'm indeed wearied at the moment. But then there's my schedule which is so putting a spoke in my wheel." He sighed exasperatedly. He didn't tell her that there was more to it. More than just an overfilled schedule…  
>"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. You should really take yourself some days off." She said and patted his shoulder.<br>"Ah, no. I really can't do that. I cannot afford that. And besides, I love my job. It's just a bit much at the moment." He shook his head.  
>"Yeah, okay. I understand that. Well, anyway … if you should ever need someone to cheer you up you can call me. I'm quite new here as you know and am in need of someone to show me a bit around." Now she was showing her bright and captivating smile again and John couldn't help but do the same. "Oh yeah, sure. I will. Thank you very much." He nodded and stretched out his hand. Mary took it. "Good night. See you soon."<br>"Yep, have a good night as well. Bye."  
>He found himself still smiling stupidly, when walking out of the praxis.<p> 


	5. Inexcusable mistakes?

**Chapter 5: Inexcusable mistakes?**

I've been a bit exhausted lately due to school and all that kind of stuff so I couldn't find the time to post anything. But here it is ... finally! Enjoy!

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><p>For the first time in a long while John could sleep peacefully and undisturbed at night.<br>Waking up the next morning he felt totally at ease, though the little mobile on the coffee table still caused him stomach aches, he tried to get rid of his thoughts and headed straight to work.  
>The following days went by like usual: Coming home after a long and tough work day, making tea, taking a shower, trying to have a nap.<br>Now and then he had a little chat with Mary in the hallway and contrary to his expectations he had to admit she did him good.  
>It was Friday, one week later after their first meeting, when Mary stepped into his office.<br>"Mary? Hey, what's up? How are you doing?" he asked in a rather surprised but nevertheless pleasantly surprised tone, having obviously not expected her.  
>"Thanks. I'm great. In a few more minutes my shift is over. Then I've got a bit free time. What about you? I was wondering whether you'd like to accompany me?"<br>"Yeah sure. I'd love to. Just wait a second … I just have to get rid of this paperwork here." Sighing he pointed at a large bunch or papers lying on the desk.  
>She threw a sympathising gaze at him. "Poor you. I was thinking maybe we'd get ourselves something to eat. That might cheer you up."<br>"Indeed. Sounds great. Is there anything you'd like to try out?"  
>"Well, since I'm quite new here there's nothing I can recommend, however, I've heard of a restaurant not far away. <em>'Angelo'<em> is its name, I think."  
>John winced slightly. But Mary didn't seem to notice.<br>"Some of your colleagues told me it should be pretty good. What do you think about it?"  
>"Yeah, it is … it is …" he mumbled quietly to himself, masking the evident, seemingly everlasting, pain in his voice. Mary's words were bringing back all those memories he had so carefully stored away for so long.<br>"The food is indeed quite tasty" he added, attempting to fool the young woman in believing that everything was fine. _It's all fine._ However his voice dropped so low and quivery, Mary could barely understand him.  
>"You okay?"<br>"Yeah, yeah … I'm grand. Don't mind me."  
>"You know, we could just postpone it if you're not feeling up to it at the moment. I know how stressed out one can be over some stupid files and the knowledge that all of the work is still ahead of you." Mary came round, drawing the wrong conclusion.<br>"No, sorry. I'm all right. Just give me a second. It's just that-" he stopped, unsure how to end his sentence …

_It's just that I haven't visited Angelo since … since Sherlock. It's just that I still can't deal with this sort of stuff. It's just that I actually know I should ask for help - but I just can't, knowing with every treatment session and every single goddamn step forward, Sherlock will be more and more forgotten, will be only a shadow in the past I once used to know. And I can't have that. I need him more than anything. I cannot forget him. I cannot move on.  
><em>A clear and yet weak voice desperately screamed in his head. Needless to say he would never voice his thoughts out loud …  
>After a moment of silence Mary raised hesitatingly, one questioning glance still lingering on him.<br>"All right. I'm just going to catch my stuff and then we can go together. I'll meet you outside the clinic."  
>She had already disappeared before John could answer, being left with a nervous and anxious feeling in his stomach, having not had a date in ages. And definitely not after Sherlock ...<br>He still didn't feel well. There were still scars left. So what was he supposed to do? He didn't feel like having a date … though he knew that people always told him he should go out more often. It was actually just the same thing that he would have told every patient as a doctor. But it was not as easy as it sounded.

Fifteen minutes later he and Mary were seated on a little table in the corner of the restaurant. It was not the one Sherlock and he always used to dine on. Fortunately not.  
>He would have not been able to cope with it.<br>"So … here we are." She smiled, trying to lighten the rather tense mood a bit.  
>"Yeah." He nodded and while they were chatting and exchanging trivial information, John noticed out of the corner of his eyes Angelo who walked into their direction. "Dr. Watson! What a surprise! I haven't seen you for so long. It's such a pleasure to see you again. Oh boy, you've lost a ton of weight! You're looking as if you were starving. I'll make sure you'll get our best dish! You will love it!"<p>

"Oh well, thank you. That's very kind of you." John murmured half-choking for Angelo hugged him now as tightly as possible.  
>"Oh, gosh. What have you been trough. Such a tragedy … I've read it in the news. Horrible! I couldn't believe it. I still cannot believe it. "Angelo held him, if even possible, closer than before and John's forehead was pressed against his chest.<br>"I know. I know." John repeated and slowly unwound himself out of the hug. He patted Angelo on his gigantic shoulders and threw an apologetic smile at Mary. Now Angelo noticed her, too. "Oh. Who are you, signora? I believe I've never seen your pretty face before. " He smiled at her.  
>"I'm new here in town. I'm Mary." She shook his hand briefly.<br>When both had ordered Angelo was just about to turn away but then seemed to realise something "Uh, shall I bring you … a … um … a candle?"  
>John almost choked. Angelo had asked so hesitatingly, so unsure, that was so not like him.<br>A more or less faked smile played upon his lips, covering the tears he so desperately held back. "No, thanks. No … not this time, I guess."  
>"So what was that all about then?" Mary asked just when Angelo had disappeared.<br>John knew exactly what she was talking about, with a suffering sigh he elaborated what had just happened.  
>"I used to have dinner with a good friend of mine in this restaurant. That's why Angelo recognised me immediately. We were like regulars.<br>And just so you know, like everyone else on this planet Angelo is profoundly convinced that we are- we _were- _a couple", John corrected himself and forced a little laugh, which came out more like a choke.  
>"A few months ago my friend died. He committed suicide …<br>And I didn't help him, damn. I didn't prevent him from … from…" Mary waited patiently for him to continue. He had never really talked about it with anyone before. Except with Ella, his therapist, of course, but he had already given up his meetings long ago.  
>"Oh. I'm so sorry, John." She said, being evidently upset and took his hand in hers. When John didn't continue to speak for a while, fighting back tears, she added: "I'm so sorry for you. It must be really difficult for you. It's always hard to lose someone you love. But you should know that it is not your fault. Your friend made his own decision and in no way you should blame yourself for his doings and suffering."<br>"Oh, no. I don't think you understand", John murmured exasperated, closing his eyes for a second, not wanting to see the repulsion or disgust on her face by the realisation that his friend was the "fraud", the "kidnapper", the "weirdo" like he was portrayed in the media. "My friend was Sherlock Holmes."  
>After a few seconds of confused silence he opened his eyes again and looked into the big and empathic ones of Mary. Her expression hadn't changed in the slightest by the mentioning of this name.<br>"Don't you know? Sherlock … Sherlock bloody Holmes?" he burst out, his voice now rising in wonder and confusion. "He was all over the news."  
>She laughed a bit. "You seem to forget that I've just moved here recently … So who is your mysterious Sherlock Holmes then?"<br>"He is … he was, he …" John fumbled for words.  
>"He was the most extraordinary and fascinating man I've ever met. The first moment you met him, he could tell you your whole life story just by having a single glance at you. He knew <em>everything<em>. A 'Consulting Detective' that's what he called himself. He and me, we were a team, you know? Chasing criminals throughout whole London. He, as a detective, to whom nobody was able to hold a candle to, and me, as a doctor and trained soldier. We caught every criminal, even the worst ones. It was the time of my life."

"So then why did he commit suicide? When he was so smart that he could outwit every enemy why did he have to die?" She sounded like a 6-year-old who had just discovered a new fascinating mystery, she was eager to solve.  
><em>Just like Sherlock.<em>  
>The thought flashed through his mind, drowning him in long gone and never coming back memories. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He chose to do the latter.<br>"I don't know" John put his hands upon his face. "I don't know" he mumbled again "If I only did."  
>"But I know, and I do know as a fact, that Sherlock Holmes was not a fake and he did not jump off that rooftop due to word-weariness. No. He was being forced to, forced to say those words and forced to fall. I believe in you. I'll always believe in you, Sherlock Holmes." John said, murmuring the last words like a silent prayer.<br>Mary wanted to say something but John interrupted her, mumbling so quietly that she was barely able to make out his words.

"And I wasn't there. They lured me away by telling me that Mrs. Hudson - our housekeeper - was dying. And I've bought it. Oh, what an idiot I've been! I wasn't there to bloody protect him. So please don't tell me that it isn't my fault."

"It is _not_ your fault, John. Stop it now." Mary demanded and squeezed his hand tightly. "From what I've heard so far Sherlock was capable of making his own decisions."

But John kept talking without even listening to her.

" … The last time I met him, I said things to him I wish I hadn't said. I told him that he was a _machine,_ Mary. Can you imagine that? The very last conservation you have with someone face to face and then you …" his voice broke, aching with self-loath.

"But it was not …" she started but then stopped mid-sentenced.  
>"What?"<br>" Ah, nothing." She shrugged and smiled apologetically. With that the conversation ended.  
>"Oh look, there comes our food." She said after a while and both of them ate hungrily, though in thoughtful silence.<p> 


	6. I AM LOCKED

**Chapter 6: I AM LOCKED**

Mary and John now met more often since the dinner at Angelo's. Evidently their bond had tightened over the last few weeks tremendously, altering from being 'just a nice distraction' to a certain kind of necessity.  
>Spending their time together in lovely restaurants or in Mary's comfy apartment, not far away from Baker Street, they laughed and talked more than John had used to do in all those three months all in all, making him feel alive again … or maybe one should say, more alive than he had ever hoped to feel again.<br>Still neither of them didn't dare to call there now constantly meetings '_dates'_ and John found it reassuring for it was the last thing he needed right now.  
>A good friend, that's what he was missing and it felt good to have something along these lines again.<p>

This evening, having dealt with a rather hard and stressful work day, both of them spontaneously drove to 221B Baker Street together instead of to Mary's apartment.  
>John being obviously nervous and anxious due to the fact that he hadn't invited a guest in ages to his flat chattered away all along the drive, covering his concerns.<br>Though knowing there was actually nothing to fear, after all 221b looked compared to the old times cleaner and neater than it had ever been before (No surprise, after all nothing could compete with the unhygienic mess his flatmate used to live in) he was full aware of the lacking mystery and lividness, the two friends had once filled the room with.  
>He felt a certain kind of excitement, drawing nearer Baker Street with every single minute.<br>Except Mrs. Hudson no one else had entered the flat since Sherlock's death, not even Lestrade or Molly who had both once appeared at his door, offering their help, but John, refusing to let them in, hadn't been ready for a conversation back then.

"Oh, your flat is so cosy and sweet!" was the first thing Mary said as they entered the living room. "It suits you."  
>"Uh-um. Thanks." John didn't sound very convinced.<br>"No, seriously. I like it!"  
>"I'm glad you do." He sighed, hard to tell whether out of relief or exasperation.<br>"It's been a long time since I had visitors." He added in a way of explanation for his rather seemingly lifeless and plain flat. "Apart from my landlady obviously who insists on bringing me biscuits and tea on a daily basis. I guess it's some kind of excuse to check on me to make sure I haven't hanged myself yet." He laughed dryly. But his laughter got stuck in his throat by the scrutinizing and piercing look Mary threw at him. "Don't joke about stuff like that! It's not as funny as you might portray it at the very moment."  
>"I'm sorry, you're right of course ... Humour is sometimes the only way I'm able to deal with things." He apologised, shrugging for he didn't know what to do. It's been a <em>hell <em>of a long time since he had talked with someone about his mental health and he didn't know how to act ... "But from what people always said there was no better medication than humour and sarcasm, right?" the doctor thought to himself.  
>She didn't reply, resting only her hand on his shoulder.<p>

"Would you like to have some tea?" he proposed, breaking the silence.  
>"Yeah, that'd be great."<br>The young woman sat down at the huge green arm chair (_Sherlock's arm chair! _a possesive voice screamed in John's mind) eyeing curiously her environment.

With John being busy putting on the water kettle Mary took the liberty of flicking through some old magazines which were all piled up across the desk. The corners were snacked, the pages were yellowed, and coffee spots were strewn all over the pictures and letters. No deductions were necessary to conclude that John took barely any interest in the news nowadays. Lifting another one of those old newspapers, she found something that caught her attention. "Oh, is that yours? It's nice." She exclaimed with an excited undertone which made John turn around, only to see her holding Sherlock's phone in her hands.  
>"Uh, no. Not really. It's Sherlock's." he answered truthfully.<br>"Sherlock's mobile? Oh, so you kept it? I guess I can understand that. It's hard to let go of so personal things, isn't it?"  
>John smiled tensely. "You're only partly right. It's indeed hard to let go of old things, especially with valued memories attached to them. That's nothing new to me. But I actaually didn't store it away for so long. Guess what ... I just found it recently."<p>

Since the first dinner at Angelo's restaurant they had avoided talking about Sherlock Holmes and now with the topic being back John didn't know how to feel about it. After all he had broken down crying and that in front of Mary. This was actually so not like him.

"Are you kidding me? Where did you find it?" her voice was full of curiosity.  
>"At St. Barts". John didn't add <em>'at the rooftop'<em>. That would have sounded way to strange, even to him who was accustomed to quite a lot.  
>"Oh my god! What a lucky coincidence. But see … it is locked. Do you know the password?" Mary continued chatting keenly.<br>"To be honest, I have not the slightest idea. It once used to be 'I AM SHER LOCKED'" he cracked a smile at that "but he must have changed it again because I've already tried it out."  
>Mary chuckled. "That's a really cool idea. I guess I would have liked that guy."<br>"Oh no, not if you had to put up with him every single day!" he retorted jokingly.

They fell into a pleasant silence, sipping their tea together, after a while Mary raised her eyebrows and asked: "So what do we do now?"  
>"Whatever you're up to. I don't care. I've got some cool movies we can watch together." He proposed.<br>"No, I mean concerning the mobile?"  
>"Oh, I see. Um, like I told you. Sherlock changed the password, it might be everything. Who the hell knows what was going on in his funny little brain?"<br>Mary shrugged his doubts off. "Do you think he kept the pun in?"  
>"Hell, I don't know Mary, maybe …"<br>"Let's assume yes. … There are four letters missing. What could it be?" Her voice carried a child-like excitement.  
>"There's no other well-known name which ends with <em>'lock'<em>, I suppose." John pondered, being evidently carried away now by her enthusiasm.

"You're probably right. So what is it then? We've got four letters that have to match with _'locked'_, maybe there's even a pun intended? It's common knowledge that people always pick out there passwords after the things they love and care about most." Now there was a confident smile playing upon her lips. "I think I got it."  
>"To be honest, I can't picture Sherlock picking his passwords after anything but practical, safe, logical codes. He's not the romantic type at all. I'm not even sure if there's anything Sherlock loved and cared about enough that he would have even considered using as a code."<br>"He loved_ you."_  
>"He <em>liked<em> me." John insisted disbelievingly.  
>"Okay. But <em>you<em> loved him."  
>John didn't respond, only waited for Mary to elaborate her hypothesis.<br>"You loved him. I may not know him and never will, but from all the things I've learned through you, it seems logically to conclude it's not something that happened frequently to him. This means that you were important to him. Hence-"  
>It only took John a second: "Oh! - Do you …? Do you really think so?"<br>Mary who obviously read the realization in her friend's eyes nodded encouragingly.  
>"I am <em>John locked<em>", he murmured it to himself. "_John locked_" Now he burst out laughing.  
>"Really? Do you really think that's it, Mary?"<br>"Yes, of course! It only makes sense. What else should it be? Try it out!" She was all smiles.  
>"Alright! Oh man, this is so weird." John tried to push the thought away that he had only two more attempts. If they made a mistake now, they would probably never find it out.<br>He typed it in, slowly, carefully and considerate, unlike the first time.  
>The screen lightened up brightly and the mobile went on.<br>_"Yes! _You were right Mary! You were right!" he shouted enthusiastically and pulled her into his arms. "Great! Really great job!"

They were celebrating their little triumph with a bottle of wine and some silly action movies. Mary snuggled up to him on the small couch and John secretly enjoyed the warmth and the newly found friendship he had craved for so long.  
>For the very moment his shattered life seemed strangely perfect. Who knows, maybe the quiet bliss wasn't going to last for long but at least he could savour the situation.<p>

When both of them were almost dozing off a thought crossed John's mind, reminding him of the fact that he must have a look at the mobile soon. But it wasn't so urgent, was it?  
>Well, how was he supposed to know at that very point what was actually awaiting him?<p>

* * *

><p>Thank you for all the lovely reviews, follows and favs I've gotten over the last few weeksdays. It really makes my day. :)  
>By the way, I'm not quite sure if I'm gonna post the next chapter soon ... after all Christmas is arriving soon (yeey :D) so I won't have a lot of time. Oh, and while we're on it: A Merry Christmas to all of you!<p>

And to QueenNaberrie who speculated about the password I'd like to say: Not kidding, the first idea I actually had in my mind concerning the password was "NOTE" (so you were kinda right) though I later on changed it. ;)


	7. Staying Alive

**Chapter 7: Staying Alive**

**Happy New Year to y'all! :D I hope you had a great time celebrating (at least I did).**

* * *

><p>Mary left eventually after midnight. With a stifled groan and sleepy eyes they bid each other goodbye, promising to meet again soon.<br>It had been a joyful evening even though to John's disappointment the action movie had sucked, consisting of too much blood and cheap, silly effects. Well, at least Mary hadn't seen it that way, considering the fact that she had fallen asleep within five minutes of its beginning.

"Bye, Mary."  
>Closing the door and slowly stepping up the staircase John realized only then how he was actually ready to drop, his body craving for some time alone, for some tranquillity.<p>

However, no matter how tired John felt, sleep was out of the question. The mobile was still lying on the small table, screaming at his face: "_Unlock me! Unlock me!"_  
>So John did.<br>He couldn't help but to crack a smile, thinking of 'Johnlocked'. It was a funny word, wasn't it?  
>Well, the fun faded away instantly as the display appeared. His stomach tightened by the all so well-known sight.<br>Smothering his unease while curiosity took the better of him, he opened one app after another. After a while he clicked at the little green button, which read "messages", accompanied by the little glimmer of hope he'd find something important.

The first thing that caught his eyes was the messages sent by and to "John H. Watson". His heart skipped a beat while luring at its content.  
>Barely stifling a laugh, he scrolled through last text conversation, resembled basically all the others.<br>Engrossed in the messages, it felt like a slight memory of an idyllic world having lost long ago.

_John H. Watson – 11th June 2012 – 4:35pm  
><em>Sherlock! What is that in the fridge again? Ugh, never mind … on second thought, I really don't want to know

At which Sherlock had replied with:

_Sherlock Holmes – 11th June 2012 – 4:37pm_  
>As you wish. But don't dare to throw it away. It's an experiment.<br>SH

_John H. Watson – 11th June 2012 – 4:40pm_  
>An experiment … yeah sure, who would have guessed? But srsly get this stuff out of the flat asap. It stinks. Hideous!<p>

_Sherlock Holmes – 11th June 2012 – 4:41pm_  
>Oh please, John. "Srsly"? "Asap"? … Really?<br>And no, I won't, it's important – for science!  
>SH<p>

_John H. Watson – 11th June 2012 – 4:44pm_  
>Oh Sherlock, let me be. It's not like I'm the only one in the words who uses abbreviations. ;)<br>I doubt that this mess is of importance but yeah alright. Just please don't involve the milk into your weird experiment … I'd still like to drink it later on.

_Sherlock Holmes – 11th June 2012 – 4:45pm_  
>Oh god. No. Not a winky face.<br>And there's no reason to worry for we ran out of milk anyway.

_John H. Watson – 11th June 2012 – 4:47pm_  
>Ugh, this is so typical. Well, then I'll be off buying some. See you.<p>

With a little tear in the corner of his eyes he kept on reading and reading.  
>Only when his eyes failed him and his exasperation took over he reluctantly let go and went to sleep, putting the mobile next to his night table.<p>

Having been totally captivated, the actual reason behind unlocking the mobile, looking for possible answers, was utterly forgotten.

It was right in the middle of the bloody night when John woke up to the sound of a violin playing a sad, melancholic and heart wrenching song.

_Sherlock! _

It was the first thought that crossed John's mind, prompting him straight forward on the bed, almost hitting the edge of it by the poor attempt to stand up.

Back in the days, where John had still suffered from violent nightmares - the noises of war and shells ringing in his ears, the taste of dry sand grains and dirt in his mouth and the feeling of a burning deadly sun on his skin - he had always woken up to the calming sound of Sherlock playing his violin.  
>At first John had thought it was just a coincidence, but when he found Sherlock playing his compositions every single night when he had suffered another nightmare, he knew that Sherlock cared, though he would have never admitted it openly.<p>

John recognized the song immediately which was now playing in the dark. It was the one his friend had composed right after Irene Adler had 'died'.

_Sherlock!_

But then reality sank back in and he let himself plop down on his pillow with a disheartened and empty feeling in his stomach. Turning his head to his left he saw the cause of the disruption.  
>Unsettled he sat up straight again, picking up the phone playing the well-known melody.<br>"Bloody hell, what's going on?" he whispered to himself, being baffled.  
>He grabbed the mobile which laid a few centimetres away on his night table, switched it on and typed in the password.<br>All of a sudden an audio file appeared on the screen written upon it:

**NOTE ONE: STAYING ALIVE**

John's heart skipped a beat. "What the…?" he breathed rapidly.  
>Without really thinking it through he opened the audio file and listened closely. Not sure what he was or should be expecting.<p>

"_Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem."_

John recognized the voice immediately; he would have recognized it among thousands:  
>It was Jim Moriarty.<br>The man who had claimed himself to be Richard Brook, made the press believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud and thus driven him into suicide …  
>Further away in the background John perceived the Bees Gees, singing happily:<p>

"Staying Alive, Staying Alive, ah ah ah ah, Staying Alive."_  
><em>

" _Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" _now it was Moriarty's voice once again.  
>"<em> It's just ... <em>_... staying.__ All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have __you__. Because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy.  
>It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out <em>_you are__ ordinary just like all of them."_ His voice sounded disappointed, almost childish as if someone had stolen him his favourite teddy._  
>"Ah well." <em>The psychopath continued, evidently enjoying himself.  
>"<em>Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"<br>_  
>Sherlock spoke for the first time and John felt his chest tighten up by its familiar sound:<em><br>"Richard Brook."  
>"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."<br>" Of course"  
>" Attaboy".<br>" Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name."  
>" Just trying to have some fun."<br>_

The snippet ended abruptly and only then John noticed he had stopped breathing.  
>Sharply he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He repeated this several times until he thought he'd have himself at least a bit under control.<p>

"Sherlock … Sherlock recorded the conservation … He recorded it? For me to find? He wanted me to know." John gulped in horror. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. "Oh my god!"  
>And now the whole puzzle was beginning fall into place.<p>

„_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"  
>"Do what?"<br>"This phone call, it's … It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

Now it all made sense.  
>Now John finally understood.<br>It was his note.  
>Sherlock had wanted John to know from the very second on but he had been too blinded to see.<br>_"You see, but you don't observe."_ Sherlock scowled at him in his memory.

_"I'm a fake."  
>"It's a trick. Just a magic trick."<em>

Everything became crystal clear as he fished Sherlock's hints out of his memory.  
>His friend hadn't been referring to the fact that people believed he was a fraud who had invented Moriarty; he had been referring to his <em>fake suicide.<em>

"Sherlock is alive!" the realization hit him unexpectedly, leaving him on the edge of crying and laughing. He didn't know what to do …

Sherlock is alive! Sherlock is alive! Sherlock is alive! Sherlockisalive? … Alive…?

The words hammered in his head, once happily, hopefully then again doubtingly, not sure whether he could trust his own senses or not …  
>Could it be? It <em>had<em> to be.  
>John clenched his fists in attempt to stop his fingers from shaking. Actually it didn't help much. His whole body was trembling and shaking uncontrollably. He crossed his arms, trying to hold himself still, trying to regain his composure while rocking back and forth like a baby. <em><br>_He just sat there for a little eternity, in his darkened small bedroom, breathing, crying, laughing …

Only then, when his tears were dried up and he felt as if all his energy has drained out, his heart caught up with his mind, directing his attention not to his whirling emotions but to the headline:

"Note one? Staying alive?" John wondered and murmured the words quietly as if that would help to enlighten him. He had heard the song by the Bees Gees playing in the background; most likely the ring tone of Jim Moriarty's mobile. John had of course not forgotten the strange incident at the swimming pool which had, to put it frankly, saved their lives. But why was the file named after it?  
>It had to be a clue, hadn't it? Sherlock would never do anything without any ulterior motives.<br>A clue … that Sherlock was alive? Well, he already could guess that by now. It was not a coincidence that the file has been sent just a few hours after he cracked the password, was it?  
>But … maybe it was a clue<em> why <em>he hid or_ where_ he hid?  
>John felt his heart beating faster. Could it be? Was it even possible? His mind was spinning now, every rational thought disappeared and he was left with a hopeful feeling spreading throughout his body.<p>

Staying Alive? What information could be hidden in this code?  
>He knew the song by the Bee Gees, of course. He also knew there was a movie out there, called exactly the same. Those were the only things he could think of.<br>Now what was the poi- Oh!  
>As if hyped up John jumped out of his small bed (again – fortunately he did keep his head safe this time).<br>Catching his laptop in a hurry, which lay upon thousands of messy clothes, he opened a search engine, frantically typing 'Staying alive; movie' and hit search.  
>Impatiently fidgeting he scrolled through thousands of websites with seemingly endless information until he finally found what he was looking for.<br>_  
><em>**Movie: Staying Alive (1983)  
>Film location: Brooklyn  Manhattan**

Having watched the movie a rather long time ago John remembered the plot only slightly. Well, all he knew was that there was this one guy who lived in Brooklyn and then moved to Manhattan, working as a dance instructor. **  
><strong>  
>So if he'd transfer this at the current situation. Could it be that Sherlock was in Manhattan? John wondered engrossed in his whirling thoughts.<br>Was it really possible … or was it just his own imagination and his liability to make up some really good odd conspiracy theories?  
>But well … what else was it supposed to be? Sherlock bloody Holmes had obviously left a riddle behind for him to find.<p>

John chuckled senselessly to himself, if anyone might have seen him just at that moment-him sitting with his laptop in the middle of the night in his darkened bedroom, eyes red from crying, mouth corners hurting from smiling-they might have thought he'd gone mad. And maybe he had. At least that was _one way_ how to explain what has just happened to him.

Despite the headaches which grew stronger and stronger with time he stayed up the whole long night, wasting not a single thought about sleep, while doing his research to Manhattan and its location, citizens and general information. He had to admit he knew embarrassingly little about geography.  
>At sunrise he found himself to be even more tired, more exhausted and more impatient than he ever thought he was capable to be. He could list almost every single goddamn street in Manhattan, not forgetting the current activities and entertainment programs and interesting, popular sights.<br>With a small sigh he closed his laptop again and collapsed on the bed.  
>Today he could forget about the work. A sleepy and tired doctor was no use for anyone after all.<p>

_John. H. Watson – 27th September 2012 – 6:37am_  
>Sorry. Could you take over my shift?<br>I'm taking off today.  
>Don't feel well.<br>I'll make up for it later. Promise._  
><em>

He texted Mary a short message and before he even realized it he was sinking in a deep but dreamless sleep.

A little text alert raised him out of his restful sleep. He groaned as he had to adjust his eyes to the bright light of his mobile.

_Mary Morstan – 27th September 2012 – 6:48am_  
>Oh dear, are you okay?<br>Sure, no problem at all.  
>Get better soon! :)<p>

He smiled.


	8. Destination ahead!

**Chapter 8: Destination ahead! **

**So here's the next chapter. I've been sick over the last few days and thus couldn't write or update.**

* * *

><p>The following days John was restless, fidgeting nervously, like in a rush.<br>If one of his patients or colleagues, obviously not missing his strange behavior, might have come to the conclusion that he was on drugs they weren't that far from the truth for John felt high as a kite.  
>Unconsciously he had adopted the annoying habit of checking his - well, actually Sherlock's phone - all five minutes, itching for another hint, another clue, to give him the desperately reassurance that all of this was not solely an erroneous belief he had placed all his trust in.<p>

He couldn't eat out of uneasiness, couldn't sleep out of nerve-wrecking concern and foolish daydreams which were keeping him awake at night.  
>Going on days without any nutrition and rest he probably served for an excellent imitation of his maddening flatmate. The only thing amiss was the lack of a white sheet tucked around his body, oh and not forgetting the lack of sulking huffs which had been accompanied by flawless deductions and insulting remarks. He reluctantly laughed at his train of thoughts.<p>

His decision was made one week later. Ever the soldier, he didn't waver for a long time, much rather preferring determined and prompt actions over a passive and quiescent attitude.

While preparing to cups of tea he called for his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson?!"  
>"Oh boy, you don't have to scream like that. I'm not deaf!" She clattered up the stairs hastily. "Nor am I your housekeeper." She added when she entered the door<br>"What's wrong?" the question sounded almost concerned, as if John would only ever call her when something wasn't going according to plan.  
>And well, maybe that was actually the case. Since Sherlock had disappeared out of both of their lives he had left a whole behind which words of comfort couldn't fill. This had ensued in a more or less unspoken agreement of them both suffering silently on their own. Both thinking they'd be better of alone.<br>"Oh, I'm fine. I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about." He calmed her down, despite the visible dark rings under his eyes, telling another story altogether.  
>"I just wanted to let you know that I'm going on a short holiday trip next week. Nothing great, it's just for a few days …"<br>"Holidays? Oh really? That sounds brilliant! You've been so busy lately I think it's really good to get your mind off things." She chatted happily and clapped her hands in excitement.  
>"So where are you heading to? If I were in your shoes I'd spent my time in Cornwall. It's a beautiful place, at such a young age of yours you should definitely take the chance and visit it."<br>"Well, in fact I already have a destination." He smirked. "I plan to go to Manhattan."  
>"Manhattan? Really? Isn't that a bit far away?" her mouth dropped in surprise.<br>"Like I said, it's just for a short time. I have to, umm, sort some things out, I'll be back soon, I suppose." He forced a little reassuring smile.  
>"Well, it comes all very spontaneous. But I wish you lots of fun! You need it. It's been a really tough time for all of us, but especially for you." She sighed and smiled at him comfortingly.<br>"Are you feeling any better? I know you're more the private person but if you like I could take you to, you know … the graveyard. Sometimes it's easier together. I know that you haven't visited it since …" she gesticulated awkwardly, evidently feeling uneasy to confront the topic.  
>"Yes, I know Mrs. Hudson. I know. And I'd rather keep it that way." He threw an affectionate smile at her, letting her know he appreciated the effort to break the deafening silence they had both so desperately been clinging to.<br>"Of course, my dear. Of course." she made an attempt to leave but then turned around. "You are always welcome for dinner. Just so you know."  
>"Thank you." John said and he meant it. When the door slammed shut behind him he let out a little breath that he wasn't aware he had held. He didn't like the bitter thought of leaving Mrs. Hudson in the dark. But he didn't, <em>he just couldn't,<em> tell them what he was up to.

_'Hey guys, guess what? I'm going to look for Sherlock. I've got the creepy feeling he's alive and it won't let me rest.'  
>' What? Are you joking?'<br>'Actually he even left me clues behind. Crazy, isn't it? Seems just like him, doesn't it? Oh, I knew it! I knew it! Sherlock Holmes is indestructible!'  
>'And where the heck should he be hiding?'<br>'I'm about 95 % sure he's in Manhattan.'  
><em>

'_Manhattan? Well, now that soldier fellow must have totally gone insane ….' _

John imagined the upcoming conversation in his mind and made a face. No, he definitely couldn't tell anyone. Everyone would make fun of him for eternity. And the worst part was actually when he found Sherlock –_ if_ he found Sherlock – he corrected himself in his head, Sherlock wouldn't approve of the fact that half London was already spreading rumours about his fake suicide and him being alive. No, he had to keep it a secret … at least for now.

There was just one more phone call to make, and then he was ready to leave.

"Is this … about Sherlock?"  
>"How did you … wait what? How could you even … ?"<br>"So this _is _about Sherlock, isn't it?" she sounded self-pleased.  
>"No! Well yes …. sort of …"<br>She chuckled. "Tell me everything!"  
>"Oh Mary, seriously. It's nothing." He tried to wipe it off. "You're making everything sound so suspicious." He laughed half-heartily. He had sworn not to tell anyone - for the sake of his and Sherlock's own good and now everything went into the totally wrong direction.<br>"If it is _that_ suspicious I am _so _going to accompany you."  
>"Mary, no!" he snapped into the phone and regretted it just the moment after. "Sorry, didn't mean it like that … it's just, it's personal, okay?"<br>"Personal? What could be so personal about a flight to Manhattan involving Sherlock Holmes? Is he about to rise from the grave to meet his one and only John Watson?" she teased, unintentionally rubbing salt into his wounds, but John could sense her growing exasperation and anger beneath.  
>"Mary, listen. Yes, indeed, there's something strange going on and even I don't know what it's about. So please don't get mad at me when I can't give you many details." He tried to explain, not wanting to make things worse …<br>"Something strange?" she echoed. "In which way do you define 'strange'?"  
>"Umm", John started unsure what to say, he didn't want to sound like a complete <em>'conspiracy- theories -making -up -idiot.'<br>_"Do you remember the mobile? Sherlock's mobile that I've found on the rooftop?"  
>"Yeah, sure. We even cracked the password."<br>"Right. It's just that I'm receiving strange messages lately. Maybe it's just me but I think they are clues. And who else could it be, you know? Who else could it be than Sherlock?"

On the other line it was silent.

"You still there?"  
>"What? Yeah. Sorry."<br>"Okay, it's creepy, isn't it? I know."  
>"It's … it's probably nothing John. Maybe someone's just playing tricks on you. You … you already said yourself the whole Holmes family is a bit odd and bizarre." She said, though she didn't really sound convinced herself. It was just something in her voice that made John feel that way.<br>"Yes. I think you may be right." He laughed to hide his slight embarrassment.  
>There was a long silence following<br>"I'll have to go now. Sorry." Then she hung up.

John sighed and looked angrily at the display as if he could blame it for all the trouble.  
>Maybe it would have been better if he hadn't said anything at all. Had he just scared Mary away with his crazy suspicions? Hell, she didn't even know Sherlock, how was she supposed to judge him for suspecting something Sherlock might have done? Okay, he had to admit he didn't sound very reasonable but it was Sherlock Holmes and not some dull, average bloke. He knew no one else who was capable of faking his own death.<br>Except for Irene Adler of course, and didn't she play in the same league?  
>"Oh." John mouthed.<br>Irene Adler! Hadn't he overlooked another clue? Irene Adler and the ring tone which had been playing the night before? It has been the beautiful composition Sherlock had written right after Irene Adler had faked her death. "Don't tell me this isn't another coincidence." John shook his head in disbelief.  
><em>"The universe is rarely so lazy, John."<em> Sherlock had used to lecture him whenever the rare occasion arouse in which John had found himself doubting his best friend's deductions.

Yes, indeed, the universe was not even capable of showing laziness when it came to Sherlock Holmes. And his Sherlock had always been extraordinary and breath-taking in every single way, and by all means no one was going to convince him that his best friend was a fake … not then and not now.


End file.
